


Loose Ties

by argentoswan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Angst, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Slow Burn, more tags to come, probably smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-30 15:24:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13954467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argentoswan/pseuds/argentoswan
Summary: Pansy is trapped in an unhappy, traditional marriage. Hermione Granger is on her way to becoming Minister of Magic. When Hermione invites Pansy to join her newest project, both women reconnect and find something rekindling between them as Pansy struggles to get out from beneath the thumb of her husband. Mentions of domestic abuse. F/F. Rating may change.





	1. Chapter 1

1.

Pansy carefully scratched on a wing with her eyeliner, drawing it so that it curved around the slope of her eye and came up into a delicate point. She had already done the other eye, so this one needed to match it perfectly.

When she was pleased with it, she sat back on the red velvet stool and examined herself in the mirror. Her straight dark hair hung down, pulled partially back by an intricate silver clip that tugged almost painfully on a few strands. Her makeup was done just the way Richard liked it; classy and simple, but enough to make her features pop. Her lips were plain, as per his request. She puckered them as she looked in the mirror, then let them settle into a frown. She looked so bland.

She stared down at the products on her makeup dresser. Gold containers of creamy foundation, powders, blushes that complemented her skin tone. She pulled open the drawer and rooted around for a moment before her fingers closed around a small tube. She pulled it out and looked at it. Gold like the rest, detailed with engraved golden flowers. She took off the cap and twisted it so the red product twirled up like a spire.

Making up her mind, she leaned forward and touched it to her lips, carefully outlining and then filling them in. When she was done she capped the product again and tilted her head, looking at herself again in the mirror. There. She looked a little less dead now.

“Pansy!”

She stood up and tugged at her dress, a beaded black chemise that hung off her figure without giving her added shape. She picked at the thin straps with long red nails.

“PANSY!”

“I’m coming,” she called back. Taking a deep breath, she turned away from her reflection and left the room, heels clacking on the hard floor.

Richard was waiting for her in the entrance hall as she descended the staircase. He wasn’t looking at her. The hard lines of his suit made his shoulders sharp rectangles, and his hair was slicked back perfectly.

She was on the last stair when he finally looked at her. His dark eyes narrowed. “What the hell did you do to your face?”

Pansy reached up and touched her lips. “I thought it matched the dress.”

“You look like a slut. How do you think that reflects on me?”

“I’m sorry.”

Richard scowled and checked his watch. “There’s no time to fix it now. We’re late. For Merlin’s sake, go and get a jacket, I don’t want the entire party staring at your fucking cleavage.”

He left without looking at her again, slamming the front door behind him. Pansy sighed. It was going to be a bad night, then.

X X X X X

Pansy managed to slip away from Richard two hours into the party. It wasn’t as though he was paying any attention to her; he was too busy networking, wandering around with a slim glass of champagne in hand, chatting about real estate and charity and whatever else came with vast amounts of money to every influential attendee they crossed paths with. He didn’t have a word to say to Pansy, but he liked to have her on his arm-- or, rather, trailing after him with a charming smile. They looked good together, standing close but never quite touching, forever chaste in public.

Pansy bored of it all quickly, and was relieved when Richard cast his eyes around the ballroom and caught sight of someone on the other end of the room. “I must go have a private word with Mr. Stevens,” he said. “I’ll be back later.”

Pansy watched him cut through the crowd, watched people hurriedly step out of his way when they saw who it was trying to get past. She took a deep breath and released it, and then turned to weave her way out of the center of the room, where couples were dancing to the upbeat swing music playing from a trio of floating violins in the corner.

It was a smaller party than she was used to, one for the largest benefactors at the Ministry and other influential people. A few years ago Pansy would have been elated to be here, to be sweeping through the crowds in an elegant dress, attractive men hanging on her every word as she dealt favors with the other higher-ups of society. But now she was just tired, and she had been so far removed from the action in Richard’s dealings that no one bothered to approach her for any business. The most she got was the occasional smile from someone she vaguely recognized or an unintelligible whisper from one or another of the women.

Self-conscious, she tucked a strand of hair behind her hair and sidestepped a man who was clutching a glass of firewhiskey and laughing far too hard. She approached the snack table, which was laden with finger foods and glasses of alcohol. She eyed the cherry tarts and felt her stomach grumble, but she had eaten too much for lunch already. Instead, she grabbed a glass of white wine, glancing around to make sure Richard wasn’t nearby. He hated it when she drank, but she needed something to take the edge off the night.

“Parkinson.”

Pansy’s hand twitched, and her stomach dropped. She had been caught. She whirled around, half-expecting to find Richard there, seething because she had broken his rules, but she blinked in surprise to find someone else there.

It took her a moment to find her words. “It’s DuBois now, actually.”

Hermione Granger tilted her head, and Pansy tried hard not to stare. She had seen her in the papers, of course, but the black and white print never did anyone justice. Pansy hadn’t seen her in person in years, but Granger was older now, her features more regal and perhaps a bit more tired. Her hair was tied up in a smooth updo, nothing like the frizzy mess that Pansy used to laugh at.

“Right,” Granger said. “Richard DuBois. You two make an excellent couple.”

“Thank you,” Pansy said mechanically, used to accepting that particular compliment. She transferred her glass to her other hand and resisted the urge to wipe the wine that had spilled onto her hand off on her dress. “How are you?”

“I always hate these functions,” Granger said. Her dress was dark blue and cut carefully so it revealed just enough of her cleavage, but not too much. As far as Pansy could tell, she wasn’t wearing any makeup. “Have you tried the spinach puffs? They’re lovely.”

“No, I haven’t,” Pansy said.

Granger stared at her. Pansy took a nervous sip of wine, hoping that Granger would say something else and fill the silence, or else leave Pansy in peace so that she could sneak off and hide behind some curtains with her alcohol. Pansy had no interest in talking to Granger.

“How have you been?”

“Marvelous,” Pansy said, still on reflex. “Absolutely wonderful. And you? I’ve heard that you’re next in line for Minister.”

Granger cocked an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t go that far quite yet,” she said. “Candidates won’t be announced until late next year. I’m honored, however, by all the support I’ve received so far.”

“Spoken like a true politician.”

Granger smiled, just a bit.

“How are Potter and Weasley?” Pansy asked, more to be polite than any kind of curiosity.

“Oh, fine,” Granger said. “Ron’s just been promoted in the Auror office, and Harry is having a grand time being back at Hogwarts.”

Pansy bit her tongue on a snarky comment harkening back to their school days. She swirled her drink, eyes wandering over Granger’s shoulder to the rest of the room. The instruments had struck up a slower tune now, and the mood of the party had drifted to a more intimate one. It made Pansy’s skin crawl.

“And you?”

“Hm?” Pansy asked, distracted.

“What have you been doing?” Granger asked. Why was she still talking to Pansy? They had exchanged enough words to make a polite departure and never speak to one another again.

“Richard has been working closely with the owner of St. Mungo’s,” Pansy said. “He wants to help develop a new wing.”

“Oh,” Granger said. “That’s great.”

“I’m very proud,” Pansy said. She felt suddenly ill, far too hot in the fur she had pulled on to hide herself. She wanted to go home.

“Are you alright?” Granger asked, as though she could hear Pansy’s thoughts.

“I’m fine,” Pansy murmured. “If you’ll excuse me, I really must go and find Richard. He’ll be missing me.”

“Of course,” Granger said, watching as Pansy set her barely touched wine on the table once more. “It was lovely seeing you again.”

“And you,” Pansy said. “Best of luck with the campaign.”

She tugged her coat closer around herself as she turned away, fighting not to look back as she pushed her way back into the crowd. She had a headache, as usual. She always got headaches when she left the house. The music was even slower still, and one man called out to her with an offer for a dance when she passed him, but Pansy ducked her head and hurried on. She thought of her bed and wished she could just Apparate home, have a cup of tea, and then sleep for a few decades.

She found Richard mingling with a group of wizards from Magical Law Enforcement in the corner of the room. He was smiling and laughing, looking confident and at ease, and Pansy pushed her shoulders back and painted on a smile of her own as she joined them.

It took Richard a few moments to notice her, but when he did he put a heavy arm around her and tugged her closer to his side. Pansy felt as though she might pass out.

“Allow me to introduce my wife!”

X X X X X

They left hours later when Richard was finally ready. He had had one too many drinks, and let Pansy take the lead in the Apparition, clinging to her arm so tightly she feared it would bruise. They landed in their dark, silent entrance hall, and Pansy blinked to let her eyes get adjusted to the sudden change in lighting.

Richard released her without a word and walked away, footsteps heavy. Pansy watched him go warily, then glanced towards the stairwell. She could try and leave, but she knew he would be upset if he wasn’t tended to in this state.

She followed him into the parlor. He had already collapsed on the sofa with a moan, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing heavily. She waved her hand as she entered and a small fire struck up in the fireplace, bathing him in orange light. She was about to go around and light some of the lamps when he said, “Come here.”

She swallowed, and then slowly walked over to him. He didn’t look at her as she approached, but when she got close enough he reached up and curled his fingers around her hips. In one sharp tug she had fallen over and landed in his lap, grabbing the back of the sofa to steady herself.

“Did you have a nice time?” he asked.

She laughed and tried to slip out of his grip, but he just tightened his hold. “Of course, darling,” she said. “And you?”

“Stevens commented on your lipstick,” he mumbled. He smelled strongly of firewhiskey. “Said you looked nice. Maybe I was wrong about it.”

“Well, thank you, darling.”

Richard was staring up at the ceiling. His eyes looked white in the light of the fire. His hands hand loosened on Pansy, so she braced herself and said, “How about I go and make us each a cup of tea before bed, hmm?”

Before she could get up Richard had wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down so she was lying flush against his chest. She had already taken off her jacket, and she struggled to pull up her dress so that her bra didn’t show.

“He’s right, you do look nice,” Richard said.

“Richard, let go of me, please,” Pansy said quietly, wiggling to try and get out.

“What, I can’t compliment my own wife? I said you look nice.”

“Thank you, Richard.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Richard said, and it sounded like he was talking to himself now. “More attention? Isn’t that it?”

“You’ve been drinking, Richard, surely you must be tired. Let me go make you some tea.”

“I don’t want tea,” Richard said, his voice suddenly strong, and Pansy flinched. Richard went still, as though smelling her fear, and when he spoke again his voice was softer. “Just lay with me a moment.”

So she laid there, awkwardly on top of him, letting him run his fingers up and down her back, trying very hard not to breathe through her nose and smell his sweat and cologne and that sickly stench of alcohol that always spelled trouble for her. Every movement of his hand tugged her dress further and further up, and soon she was cold and worried that he would see her undergarments.

When he pressed his lips against her neck, she tilted her head back to allow him access, staring up at the ceiling and counting very slowly in her head. When she got to ten she started from one again, feeling his lips travel lower, stopping at her collar bone. His fingers tugged at the fabric of her dress.

And then in one swift move that she thought he would be too drunk to perform, he flipped her over onto her back and switched their positions so that he was on top and she was immobile underneath him, held down by his hands pressing her wrists into the leather of the couch. With one hand he held her, and with the other he felt his way under her dress and grabbed roughly at the waistband of her underwear.

“Richard!” Her voice came out a yelp.

“Shut up,” he said gruffly, feeling down there, exploring, and Pansy felt tears perk in her eyes and she let out a high-pitched whine and wriggled, trying to get away, and then she felt a sharp pain in her cheek and went still.

Richard made a noise of annoyance and sat up, still keeping her lower half pressed into the couch. Pansy laid still, hardly breathing. Her cheek tingled where he had slapped her.

“Can’t even get attention from my own wife,” Richard said. Even in the dark she could tell his cheeks were red with anger and alcohol. “Fine. Be that way. Go and make your fucking tea.”

He got off of her and stomped away, stumbling only once and catching himself on the armchair. And then he was gone, but Pansy still felt choked by the whiskey smell he and his slicked back hair left behind.

She stayed where she was and breathed for several minutes, half fearing he would come back. When she heard the creaking stop above her, she thought it safe enough to reach down and pull up her underwear and smooth her dress down again. She got up quietly and stood; her heels had fallen off when Richard had pulled her onto him, and she left them there. She walked out of the parlor, down the hall, and into the first floor bathroom, where she shut the wooden door tightly behind her. When she waved a hand, the lights flickered on, bathing her in light, and she looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, the silver hairpin hanging by a few painful threads, and her red lipstick was smeared across her right cheek. She looked pale and ill, and she stared at herself and her chest heaved and then she was crying.

She covered her mouth with her hand to keep quiet and stumbled over to the toilet. She sat down on the seat, struggling to breathe, seeing spots swimming around her as she cried painful, gut-wrenchingly quiet sobs. She cried often, but it had been a while since it had been this violent. She kept both hands pressed firmly over her mouth and let the tears ruin the rest of her makeup.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, but when she had stopped and had spent a good fifteen minutes just staring at the white tiles underneath her feet, she finally started to move. She pulled a length of toilet paper off the roll and used it to wipe away her eyeliner and the smeared lipstick. She got to her feet and turned on the faucet and scrubbed cold water into her skin. She took out her hairpin and set it down beside the sink and didn’t look at herself in the mirror again.

The house was quiet and still when she left the bathroom. She moved slowly up the stairs, clinging to the banister, an empty numbness settling deep into her stomach. When she got upstairs, she went to her and Richard’s bathroom and took off the rest of her makeup in the dark.

When she had finished, she went into her room and crawled into bed next to him without bothering to get undressed, and didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

X X X X X

Pansy received a letter the next morning. She was cleaning up after Richard’s breakfast when she heard the tap on the glass at the window and gone to let in the small tawny owl. She untied the letter from its leg and pulled out a small bowl to fill with water and set down for it to drink from. As it rested, she glanced down at the envelope, already opening her mouth to call Richard down from the bedroom when she realized that it was addressed to her.

Pansy blinked. It had no return address. For a second she thought it might be from Draco, but no, the handwriting was unfamiliar, and he hadn’t spoken to her in months. It wasn’t from her parents, either. Pansy had no idea who it was from.

She heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and in a snap decision she stuffed it under her shirt and into her bra. Straightening her shirt, she turned back to the table and continued clearing away Richard’s dirty plates.

He scowled when he walked in, dressed for work with his hair smartly dressed. “Do I have a letter?”

“Hm?” Pansy followed his gaze to the owl, which was still pecking at the water. “Oh, no. It didn’t have any mail with it. I think it’s lost.”

“Then why is it here? I told you to stop letting the dirty things into our home, just take the stupid mail and send it away.” He stalked across the kitchen and waved at it. “Go on, shoo!”

The poor thing hopped away from the water with a squawk, narrowly avoiding his swing, and then took off through the open window again.

“Have a good day at work, dear,” Pansy said. She tried to approach him and give him a kiss to the cheek, but the look he sent her way made her lose her confidence.

“Oh, now you want to kiss me,” he said.

“Richard-”

“Have the bedroom cleaned by the time I get home, you’ve let it get filthy.”

He left without another word. Pansy remained where she was and flinched when he slammed the front door behind him. The sound echoed long after he was gone.

She sat down at the table and reached down the front of her shirt, pulling the envelope out again. She looked at her own name scrawled on it in blue ink. _Pansy DuBois_. Sometimes she didn’t recognize it.

She turned it over in her hands and sliced it open with her fingernail. The paper she drew out was heavy and felt expensive. She carefully unfolded it and read.

 

_Mrs. DuBois,_

_Sorry if this reaches you at an ungodly hour. I sent the slowest owl I could. When I approached you last night, I forgot to ask you the real question I had for you. If you would be so kind as to join me for lunch at my office this afternoon, I would very much appreciate it. I know you are very busy, but I won’t take up too much of your time._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Hermione Granger_

 

Pansy read it three times before the message finally made sense to her. She lowered it into her lap and stared at the remains of the yolk already crusting onto Richard’s empty plate. She had never expected Hermione Granger to try and talk to her again, let alone invite her to lunch. There was no way Pansy could go, Richard would be furious if she went out without his permission.

She had already crossed over to the pad of paper on the counter and had picked up a pen to scrawl a return letter politely turning down the invitation indefinitely, but then she paused. Richard had said that he wouldn’t be home until late tonight, and Granger might have something important to tell her. It wouldn’t hurt to drop by and hear her out.

Pansy set down her pen. She raised her hand and touched her cheekbone, where she knew a faint bruise had formed over the course of the night. She would have to cast a Glamour to hide it.

Pansy untied the apron around her waist and set it down on the counter, making up her mind. She needed to clean the bedroom fast if she wanted it done before she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is still very much in development, so ratings/warnings/tags may change. Please drop a comment letting me know what you think! XX


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Hermione was no stranger to busy work. Back in her school days, professors had been forced to make up new homework assignments for her when she had gone and begged for extra practice. Most of it had been useless but diligently completed because she was desperate to stay on top of the class, even if her competitors had been far and few in between.

Now, however, she prided herself on doing work that really mattered, but even she had to admit that the bit of paperwork that she was bent over probably did not have to be checked four times over for errors.

When she got to the end, Hermione sighed and pushed it away. She took off her reading glasses and rubbed her eyes. She glanced at the cuckoo clock on the wall, which, before it had been broken, would open up to release a flurry of live doves into the room at the top of every hour. It had been a gift from Ron, a well-intentioned one, but, in a fit of annoyance, she had sent a charm at it that had closed the door forever. Now, every time a new hour rolled around, it would do nothing but sigh heavily.

It was just before lunch, but Hermione had already finished all of her work for the day. She had kept her load purposefully light, but it appeared that it had been for nothing. Parkinson had never responded to her letter. She knew it had been a long shot.

Hermione stood up to stretch her legs. She had never really counted on Parkinson’s support, so it wouldn’t be much of a problem to recalibrate and move forward with her plans without her. Still, it was a disappoint to hit yet another dead end.

Hermione’s office was small and secluded. She kept her door shut to ensure privacy and peace, but without anything to do the quiet became boring. She wandered over to her bookshelves, which were stuffed from ceiling to floor with countless books on magical law and Muggle law and codes and regulations. She skimmed the titles for some light reading, but nothing jumped out at her.

A heavy puff of disappointed air drew her eyes back to the clock, which sagged in disappoint as it struck noon and remained silent. Hermione thought she heard a distant birdsong, but she might have been imagining it.

Lunchtime, and no Parkinson. Hermione didn’t have any plans, after all.

“Well,” she said out loud to herself, “that’s that.”

She would go and visit Ron to see if he wasn’t too caught up with work. Maybe they could step out for some lunch. And maybe she would even go home early. Merlin knew she had nothing to do _here_.

She picked up the black blazer that hung over the back of her chair and shrugged it on. Reaching up to straighten her ponytail, she strode across the room and yanked open the door, preparing to step out, and then stopping in surprise when she met Parkinson’s widened, dark eyes.

“Parkinson!” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you knock.”

“I was just about to,” Parkinson said. Her hair was tied back in a nice bun, and she was dressed simply in a long-sleeve black button down and trousers. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and Hermione had trouble recognizing her without some bright shade on her lips. It had been her trademark in their later years of Hogwarts.

“Come in,” Hermione said when Parkinson began to look a little bit awkward. She stepped aside and shrugged off her jacket again as Parkinson passed her. She watched her guest look around the tiny office and shut the door with a loud click that made Parkinson jump.

“Sorry,” Hermione apologized. “I wasn’t expecting you. When I didn’t get a response…”

“I’m sorry,” Parkinson said. She wrung her hands in front of her, not making eye contact with Hermione, and Hermione frowned. She had thought there had been something off with Parkinson at the function the night before, but she had chalked that up to the crowd. Now, however, Parkinson’s shoulders were taught and there was something uncomfortable in the set of her lips that others might not have noticed, but that caught Hermione’s eye because it was so… _un-_ Parkinson. The girl she had known at school had been arrogantly confident and sharp with her responses. “If you have other plans, I can leave.”

“No, no, not at all. Have a seat, please.” Hermione gestured to the small sofa in the corner of her office, the green one that Fleur had picked out to give the room “a pop of color.” She followed Parkinson over and sat down on the opposite side, keeping a measure of polite space between them.

“Did you enjoy the rest of the party last night?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” Parkinson said. She still seemed uneasy, but her hands were still in her lap and her expression looked more bored than anything. Now _that_ was the Parkinson that Hermione knew. “And you?”

“I slipped out a little bit early,” Hermione said. “I’m not much of a late owl.”

“Hm,” Parkinson said.

Hermione clasped her hands together, suddenly uncertain of what to say. She felt it between them, as strongly as Parkinson must; a heavy history that weighted their words, insults left open to fester over the years, and although Hermione wasn’t bothered by them anymore, she could still feel a measure of wariness when Parkinson spoke to her.

“Where are my manners?” she asked, and Parkinson’s gaze flickered briefly to hers before settling on the coffee table again. “Did you want to get something to eat? I realize that I invited you over to lunch without even offering.”

“No, that’s quite alright,” Parkinson said. “I already ate. Unless you…?”

“No, I’m just fine,” Hermione said, and then they settled back into another brief, awkward silence. For Merlin’s sake, this was going nowhere. Hermione just needed to spit it out.

“I’ve been meaning to get into contact with you for awhile now,” she said, ignoring the small bit of surprise she saw bloom on Parkinson’s face. “When I saw you last night, I thought to approach you there, but I didn’t want to take up too much of your time. I have an offer for you.”

“What offer?” There it was, the same wariness that Hermione felt between them. No doubt Parkinson thought that Hermione was playing some kind of practical joke on her.

Hermione straightened her shoulders. She needed to pitch this as professionally as possible.

“I want to start an organization,” Hermione said. “An organization of women that confronts the gender inequality in the Ministry and the wizarding world.”

Parkinson stared at her blankly. Hermione’s cheeks were already warming, but she forged bravely ahead. “The organization would provide many services to witches all across the country. It would give them a platform to speak out against injustice or foster a conversation about global issues. It would reach out to young witches and provide them with opportunities and funding for their educations. Most importantly, it would bring together witches of all socioeconomic levels and give them common ground.”

It was a rehearsed speech, one she had repeated many times to Harry while he had nodded encouragingly to her and offered critiques to when necessary. Hermione had only pitched it a few times to people other than her closest friends, however, and the words sounded fresh to her ears as she said them. She thought they sounded well-spoken and eloquent, and when she finished, she smiled proudly.

“Is this for your campaign?” Parkinson wasn’t smiling. In fact, her frown seemed to have deepened.

“No,” Hermione said. “As I might remind you, no official candidates have been announced, but--”

“But you appreciate the support you’ve already been offered,” Parkinson said. “I remember.”

Hermione expected a further snarky comment, but when none came, she cleared her throat. “This isn’t for any political purpose of my own,” Hermione said. “I’ve been meaning to start something like this for a long time, and I think now is the right moment to start.”

Parkinson twiddled her thumbs. She still hadn’t made eye contact. “Why are you asking me?”

“You and your husband are very influential members of society.”

“You mean we have money.” Her words carried a defensive tone. Hermione was afraid she had already made up her mind, and searched for anything that could change her mind.

“Yes,” she admitted. “But you also have a platform. People already look to you for social cues, and your support would mean a lot to me.”

Parkinson didn’t look convinced. She glanced at the door and at the broken cuckoo clock. Hermione took a deep breath, not about to admit defeat.

“And,” she said, her voice softer, “I know we didn’t get along in school- believe me, I know- but I have to admit that even then you had a certain charisma about you. You speak well and carry yourself with a confidence that I always admired. You’re someone I would love to have on my team, and one of the first people I thought about when I first started developing this organization.”

Parkinson still didn’t look at her, and didn’t respond to the compliments. But she hadn’t left yet, and she had stopped looking to the door.

“What would my role in your… organization be?” she asked.

“Whatever you want it to be,” Hermione said, surging towards the opening she saw. “I’m willing to work around your preferences. Whether you want this to be a purely monetary support- which I would, of course, appreciate- or if you would be willing to be a little more involved in it. The choice is yours. This is a really great opportunity to network with other witches.”

“I’ll have to speak to my husband about this,” Parkinson said.

“Of course,” Hermione said. “It would be an honor to sit down and discuss it with him. He has already done so much for the wizarding world through his charitable donations and strides towards equality.”

It was a little bit of a lie, because although the DuBois _had_ been very involved with several impressive endeavors, Hermione couldn’t remember a time that Richard or Parkinson had gotten hands-on involved in anything. Still, they hadn’t done anything wrong, so Hermione felt it was okay to make a little assumption.

Parkinson shifted where she sat and crossed her legs. She chewed on her bottom lip. “Would you give me some time to consider your proposal?”

“Of course!” Hermione said. “Please, take all the time you need. Feel free to drop by any time, or- here.” She jumped up and went to her desk, pulling out a piece of parchment and grabbing a quill. She quickly scribbled her address on it, folded it, and then walked back over to where Parkinson sat watching her. “My home address,” she said, handing it over. “If you send any correspondence there, I’ll get to it faster. The interns are rubbish here.”

Parkinson hesitated before taking it. She stood up. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Hermione said. She offered her hand to shake. “I look forward to working with you.”

Parkinson eyed her hand. For a moment Hermione thought she wouldn’t accept it. Then she did, briefly curling her cold fingers around Hermione’s, and then letting go of her as though she had been burned.

“Goodbye,” she said, and then left, opening the office door and closing it behind her.

Hermione stared at the closed door. _That_ had been odd.

X X X X X

“Look, you know I think this is a really cool thing you’re doing,” Ron said. Harry was busy in the corner pouring them all drinks. “It’s great, you know- I love women! More power to them! But what kind of message are you going to send by getting _Pansy Parkinson_ onboard?”

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. Harry walked back over, two glasses in hand and one floating demurely at his side. She accepted her drink with a smile. “We aren’t in school anymore.”

“Actually, we are,” Harry said with a grin. He sat down on his sofa and raised his glass at her. The ice clinked.

“Your rooms are much better than ours ever were, though,” Ron said, leaning forward to snatch the alcohol out of the air.

“Perks of being a professor.”

“Guys!” Hermione said, trying to keep the whine out of her voice. “We’re talking about _me_!”

“Sorry,” Harry said. “We just talk about you so much, it’s hard to stay on track.”

Hermione reached out and kicked Harry’s foot. He laughed.

“Just because we aren’t in school doesn’t mean that she’s changed at all,” Ron said.

“It doesn’t mean she hasn’t,” Hermione said.

“I know! I’m just saying, maybe you should talk to her a little bit more before you hand over all that power to her.”

“I’m not handing anything over to you,” Hermione said, stiffening slightly. “But if she wants to help, I would appreciate it. There are already so many people against this organization. I need all the support I can get.”

“I could organize something,” Harry offered, “a conference or panel or something. I could publicly endorse it.”

“That’s very generous of you, but you hate the press,” Hermione said.

“And you’ve done such a good job staying out of it recently,” Ron added.

“I need to do this on my own,” Hermione said, “especially if I want my political career to advance any further.”

“So you still want to go for Minister?” Harry asked.

Hermione shrugged and took a sip from her glass. The alcohol was sweet and sharp. “Why not?”

“Of course you’d treat it like it’s no big deal,” Ron said.

“Shut up, Ron.”

Ron stuck his tongue out at her. Hermione pulled a face back at him.

“I’m proud of you, Hermione,” Harry said, watching them both fondly.

“Thanks, _Harry_.”

“Hey, I’m proud, too!” Ron scowled. “That’s why I want you to make sure that you’re putting this in the right hands. I know how important this is to you, and I know how awful Parkinson can be. I just want you to be careful.”

“I can handle it just fine for myself, Ron,” Hermione said, “but thank you for your concern.”

Ron shrugged and sat back in his seat. “That’s my job done. Hey, you two are coming over to the Burrow on Sunday, right?”

“Just like every week,” Harry said.

“Mom wanted me to make sure,” Ron said. “You know her.”

“How are Fleur and Bill doing?”

Ron’s smile widened the way they always did when someone asked about his niece. “They’re wonderful,” he said. “I visited yesterday. Victoire fell asleep on me.”

“I can’t wait to see her on Sunday,” Hermione said. “I just love babies.”

“I’m too scared I’ll drop it,” Harry said.

“It’s a _her_ , not an _it_ , Harry.”

Harry shrugged.

“Alright, enough about the baby,” Ron said. “We’ve talked about Hermione, we’ve talked about Victoire, and now it’s time to talk about me.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Guess who’s got a date!”

X X X X X

Two days later, an owl tapped on Hermione’s kitchen window during dinner. The letter was short and written in curly handwriting.

_Ms. Granger,_

_I would love to help with your organization. When can we meet?_

_Mrs. Dubois_

X X X X X

They were in Hermione’s office again, and this meeting was no less stiff than the last one had been. Parkinson was dressed in a modest brown dress that tried to hide her figure, but Hermione could still see her curves whenever she crossed her legs or moved around.

“What is the name of the organization?” Parkinson asked. It was their first official meeting, and Hermione had spent the entire day preparing for it, even though there wasn’t much to prepare yet.

“I have some tentative titles, but a firm name is to be decided. I would love your opinion on some of the options.”

“What other benefactors do you have?”

“I have some unofficial support from some fellow Ministry employees, but I haven’t approached anyone quite yet.”

“You approached me.”

“I wanted your support early.”

Parkinson didn’t look at her. It was fast becoming a habit of hers, one that quite annoyed Hermione. She preferred eye contact when possible. “Do you have anything concrete, or is this just another one of your flippant whims?”

Hermione frowned, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“I seem to recall several other… _movements_ you attempted to establish at Hogwarts.”

“If you’re talking about _S.P.E.W._ -”

“You had an organization named spew?” Parkinson wrinkled her nose. “Goodness, perhaps you do need my help.”

Hermione bristled. “It was the Society for the Protection of Elfish Welfare, and-”

“Dear Merlin, no wonder it failed.”

“Look,” Hermione said sharply, and Parkinson blinked in surprise at the sudden tone change. “I understand that we have certain unsettled disagreements, but for the sake of this project I will have to ask you to remain professional and respectful. Is that understood?”

Parkinson didn’t respond. Her posture was perfectly straight, and her eyes were fixed on Hermione’s knees. The clock in the corner ticked on, marking every uncomfortable second. The silence was heavy.

Finally, Parkinson said quietly, “If you’ll excuse me, I forgot there was an appointment I needed to attend to. We can recommence this meeting at a later date, if it’s alright with you.”

She got up before Hermione could say anything, smoothed down her shapeless dress, and left. Hermione had left her office door open to try and make Parkinson feel a little more comfortable, so she had no problem slipping out and letting it shut behind her.

Hermione sat back on the sofa, letting her own irritation flare up through her confusion at the abrupt end to a conversation she had expected to last much longer. Perhaps Ron had been right. Perhaps Parkinson _was_ going to be impossible to work with, and, if that was the case, then this entire project had gotten off on the wrong foot. If she worked with people who just decided to get up and leave anytime Hermione said something that bothered her, it would fail before the organization even started. And Hermione really couldn’t afford for this to fail. She had dreamed of launching something like this for years and years, and now she was finally in a safe enough position professionally to go for it. If it got off the ground, it would be historic.

Hermione would be damned if she let it fail.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: description of domestic abuse

3.

On Thursday morning another owl arrived for Pansy as she was preparing a kettle of tea for breakfast. The owl tapping on the glass had startled her so much she had nearly dropped a mug on the floor. She still wasn’t used to getting mail. She hadn’t spoken to any of her friends in months, and her parents didn’t bother owling before they came for a visit, which they hardly ever did, anyways. Despite the novelty of it, however, Pansy was becoming quickly good at hiding the letters from Richard.

Their discussion about Granger’s offer had been very short.

_ “What in Merlin’s name do we need an organization of women for? You lot already have equal rights.” _

_ “I quite agree,” Pansy murmured. “But it could be a good opportunity for us…” _

_ “You mean for you. No, I won’t allow it.” _

_ “Richard, it would look so good to everyone at the Ministry…” _

And Pansy had pleaded a little bit more, so much so that Richard had come close to snapping, but in the end he had agreed with the warning that if it got in the way of her housework, he would personally end the organization as a whole.

Pansy wasn’t sure why she had fought so hard for it. She had no particular interest in activism and no specific devotion to women’s rights. She supposed that, since she was a woman herself, she ought to care more, but she just couldn’t bring herself to with everything else going on in her life. And she was agreeing to work with Hermione Granger, whom she had bullied so terribly in school that her own words still haunted her some nights, reminded her that she had never been much of a good person, anyways, and if she did one good thing with her life it was to stick it out with Richard.

But Pansy’s life for the past three years had revolved around Richard: pleasing Richard, caring for Richard, tiptoeing around Richard so he didn’t slap her for an offhand comment. Pansy thought that if she didn’t get out of the house she might actually go mad, crack like egg. After her fight with Draco, she had no one to talk to except for her husband. When she caught herself weighing the pros and cons of accepting Granger’s invitation out loud while sitting alone on the floor of her closet, Pansy realized that maybe she needed to do something about her situation.

So she pretended to care when Granger talked about sponsors and goals, and when she opened up the newest letter and found a list of potential organization names, she sat down with a pen to critique them.

She crossed out  _ W.A.W.A.W.I. (We Are Witches Against Workplace Inequality)  _ and  _ W.A.W.F.G.E. (Witches and Wizards for Gender Equality) _ and wow, Granger really liked acronyms. Pansy went ahead and drew a line through the entire list, scribbling a note in the margin suggesting that maybe she try something that was less than five words.

“Pansy?”

Pansy dropped the pen and folded the letter and shoved it into the pocket of her apron. She tried not to look guilty when Richard walked in.

“I can’t find the paper,” he said.

“I put it next to your chair, darling,” Pansy said lightly, getting to her feet and walking over to the kettle as it began to whistle. 

“I  _ told  _ you to leave it on the coffee table. You never listen to me.”

He walked over to the cupboard and pulled out a glass. He turned it over in his hand as though inspecting it for fingerprints.

“I’m sorry,” Pansy murmured, taking the water off the stove. 

“We’ll be hosting a dinner party tomorrow night,” he said, apparently appeased with his search. He turned to the sink to fill his cup with water.

Pansy frowned. “Who’s coming?”

“A couple coworkers of mine, very important men. We want to impress them. I was thinking five courses, and of course dessert.”

“I was supposed to meet Hermione Granger tomorrow night,” Pansy said, her heartbeat already quickening. She set down the warm kettle on the countertop. “I promised I would have dinner with her.”

“Tell her you have to reschedule.”

“This is an awful lot to tell me on short notice. I haven’t even done the shopping yet. How many are we going to be hosting?”

“Eight, nine? I don’t know.”

“And the cleaning… I haven’t cleaned the dining room in weeks.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“I really think it would be best if-”

Pansy gasped when Richard turned and hurled his glass against the wall. It shattered, spraying water and shards of glass everywhere, and although it wasn’t anywhere near her Pansy felt something in her stomach twist painfully.

“I don’t ask much of you,” Richard said, his voice deceptively calm. “This is very important to me, and I would appreciate it if you would do as you’re told.”

Pansy pressed her hands against her abdomen, fingers curling into the fabric of her apron. “Yes, Richard, of course,” she said, weakly, because it was always easier to agree when he was in one of his moods.

There was a moment of silence. Then Richard took a step towards her and Pansy forced herself to remain still, to not flinch when he reached up and laid a hand on her cheek, caressing the spot he had slapped only a week ago. 

“Thank you,” he said, and then leaned forward to press a kiss to her lips. She kept her eyes open, staring at the thin skin of his closed eyelids and the slant of his eyelashes.

When he pulled away, he said, “Let me get that.” With a wave of his hand he cleaned the broken glass and the water and left the kitchen as good as new. It was as if nothing had ever happened.

Pansy took a long, shaky breath after he left, and only then did she allow herself a shiver.

X X X X X

Pansy had barely been able to prepare dinner in time. She had stayed up most of the night planning a menu and cleaning the dining room, and had been at the shops the moment they had opened that morning. Now she stood in the kitchen listening to the men laugh over the first course of their meal. She was exhausted but too afraid to sit down and rest in case she couldn’t find the strength to get back to her feet. 

Pansy wished, not for the first time, that the estate Richard had inherited had come with a house elf, or that Richard would let her get some kind of help. He maintained that it was a waste of money, however, and whenever she brought it up he went on about how she was his wife and she was supposed to be able to do these things without complaint. 

The soup for the second course was simmering on the stove, and a pile of fine china bowls next to them were ready to be filled. Judging by the mounting chatter in the adjoining dining room, it would be time soon to clear the plates and bring out the next round of food. Pansy stepped closer to the stove, picked up a bowl, and flicked her wrist to levitate the ladle out of the pot with a full serving of soup simmering inside.

The doorbell rang, and Pansy dropped the ladle back into the pot with a surprised splash. She hadn’t been expecting more guests. There wouldn’t be enough food.

“Pansy!” Richard’s voice was pleasant, but firm. 

“Yes, dear!”

Pansy wiped her hands off on her apron and left the kitchen. She took a moment to fix her hair and plaster on a smile that she hoped didn’t look  _ too  _ irritated, and then pulled open the front door.

“Granger?” she asked, her smile withering.

“Hi,” Granger said. She was dressed casually in a plain white t-shirt and jeans, her hair tied up in a frizzy, sloppy bun. She let her eyes wander down to Pansy’s stained apron and raised her eyebrows. “Am I interrupting dinner?” 

“Um- no, I mean, kind of- I told you I was busy.”

“I know, but I thought about what you said about the acronyms and I have a new list of ideas. I thought I would just drop them by and leave them for you to look at before we had another meeting. I hope I’m not imposing? But- oh, that does smell delicious in there. Did you cook?”  
“Yes?” Pansy hung tight to the door, wishing that she could slam it in Granger’s face. “Um-”

“Pansy? Who’s at the door?” Richard called from within the house.  
Pansy grit her teeth when Granger looked curiously over her shoulder. “No one, dear!” She had to get the next course out, and Granger had that look on her face that told Pansy that she had questions that needed to be answered. It was the same expression that had annoyed her in school for so many years. Pansy decided to take the lesser of the two evils and stepped back into the entrance hall. “Won’t you come in?”

Granger looked around with open curiosity as Pansy shut the door behind her. She waved a hand to hurry her guest through the hall and back into the messy kitchen, where the soup was still waiting to be served. She felt a twinge of shame when she noticed Granger looking around the room. Pansy never had guests back here. Well, Pansy never had guests, period. 

“You can have a seat,” she said. “I just need to go do one quick thing, I’ll be right back.”

Granger settled down onto a wooden stool as Pansy smoother her apron once more and hurried out into the dining room. The long wooden table, usually empty, was now full of men in dark suits, all talking with one another, empty salad plates sitting in front of them. Pansy didn’t recognize a single one of them, but she guessed they were important from the air of self-assurance that surrounded them. She had been exposed to it in her childhood. Richard was on his feet topping off one of the men’s glass of wine, and hardly looked up when Pansy stepped in.

“Who was at the door?” he asked as Pansy began to gather the plates, snaking her hand carefully in between the men. 

“Oh, just a boy selling chocolate,” Pansy said lightly, balancing a plate carefully on her forearm and securing it with a whispered spell. “I’ll have the soup out in just a moment.”

“No rush,” Richard said, beaming at the man sitting beside him. “Care for more, Mr. Simmons?”

When Pansy had circled around and collected all the plates, she hurried away, worried that she would drop something. The door to the kitchen flew open of its own volition as she approached, and she slipped inside. She heard the scrape of wood on tile as she entered, and then Granger was at her side in a flurry of energy.

“Let me help!” she said, reaching out to start grabbing.

“No, thank you,” Pansy said hurriedly, side-stepping Granger so as not to upset the precious equilibrium she had struck up between herself and the dishes. She reached the sink and began piling them inside, placing them carefully so as not to chip any of them. They had been Richard’s grandmother’s, and she would have to hand wash them later on in the evening when she had time.

Granger watched, hands hanging at her sides. “I seem to have interrupted a party.”

“Richard is having some coworkers over. They’re discussing business.” Pansy finished with the dishes and stepped over to the stove, waving her hand so that the ladle swung up and deposited a generous measure of potato soup into the first bowl. It was a creamy white that curled delicately as it hit the china. Another swift movement and a sprig of cilantro jumped from the chopping board and nestled itself carefully in the center of the dish, a perfect, lush little island.

“What kind of business?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Pansy finished the next bowl. 

“I can leave if you’re going to join them,” Granger said, and Pansy wished that she would just stop talking and let her focus on her work.

“No, no, just give me a moment.” Granger watched finally seemed to get the hint and quieted as Pansy finished serving. Pansy pulled her wand out of the apron’s pocket, murmured a spell that had become familiar to her, and watched all the bowls rise into the air and stopping to hover at shoulder height. With another twitch of her wrist they were following her as she paraded them across the kitchen, through the door, and out into the dining room, leaving Granger behind her.

Richard was in the middle of a story when she entered. Pansy waved her wand to deliver all of the bowls, setting them down carefully in front of each of the men. A few of them looked down and murmured their thanks, but Richard’s story never paused, and Pansy hurried back out of the room before he could acknowledge her or ask for anything else

“I’m sorry,” she said as she entered again. Granger was seated once more, looking over the notes she had brought with her. She looked up at Pansy when she spoke. “I’ve been rude. Can I get you something to eat?”

“Are you not going out to join them?” Granger asked.

“What?” Pansy frowned. “No, I need to get the next course ready. Please, let me get you a bowl of soup. I’m afraid we haven’t got any salad left.”

“It’s really alright,” Granger said, but Pansy was nervous and embarrassed that Granger had caught her in the kitchen like this and she needed to do  _ something  _ to restore some semblance of normality to the situation, and Granger was her guest, so Pansy was going to serve her whether she liked it or not. 

She poured another bowl of soup by hand, picked up a spare spoon, and carried it over to Granger. She set it down on the counter in front of her. “It’s potato leek,” she said. “Oh!” She hastened back over to the chopping board, plucked up a sprig of cilantro, and then placed it delicately in the center of Granger’s bowl. 

Granger stared down at the soup. She didn’t look like she particularly wanted to eat it, and for some odd reason that made Pansy so angry she thought she might cry. But then Granger picked up the spoon and Pansy felt a wash of relief. 

“Won’t you have a bowl as well?” she asked, her spoon hovering above the surface of the soup.

“I’ve already eaten,” Pansy said. It was a lie, but it seemed to appease Granger, who dutifully blew on her soup and took a bite.

Pansy watched closely as Granger’s face was touched with surprise. She sat back in her seat. “It’s delicious.”

Pansy allowed herself a small smile. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t know you could cook. You never struck me as the type.”

“It took me a while to learn. I’m still not that good.”

“No, this is really amazing. And I eat Mrs. Weasley’s food on a regular basis.”

Pansy wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, but she took it as a compliment. “Can I see the list, then?”

Granger handed it to her and Pansy read it while her guest ate. It was long, and Pansy quickly tired of reading reiteration after reiteration of “Magical Folk Against Institutionalized Sexism.” 

“What do you think?” Granger asked, scraping her spoon around the sides of her bowl.

“It’s… better,” Pansy said, resting her hip against the lip of the counter.

“Any of them that you like?” 

“Um…” Pansy sat down on the stool next to Granger, reading over the list. “They’re… informative.” 

“But?”

“But they lack a certain…” Pansy waved her hand vaguely. “Je ne sais quoi.”

“Okay,” Granger said. She appeared to have learned to accept criticism a bit better than she had in school. Pansy remembered all the times that a teacher had tried to critique Granger for something, and the girl had gone bright red and stiff in her seat with embarrassment. Pansy used to compare her to a spoilt tomato. Now, however, the woman was perfectly calm and scraped up the last few bites of her soup as she thought about it. “Merlin, this is delicious. Okay. Do you have any ideas?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Well, what have you been doing?”

Pansy felt a wash of embarassment, but when she glanced at Granger the other girl was smiling. “I don’t have any ideas. I’m sorry.”

“I think that you should make a list of your own,” Granger said, “since  _ obviously _ I’m not good at the whole naming thing. I get defensive about  _ S.P.E.W _ ., but only because no one has let me live that down.”

“It wasn’t… terrible,” Pansy murmured.

“Oh, now you’re trying to be nice to me?”

Pansy’s lips quirked, just a little bit, and that was the exact moment that Richard’s voice made her jump.

“I didn’t know that we had another visitor.”

Pansy whirled around so that her lower back was pressed against the counter. Richard was standing in the doorway, his smile tight and his eyes on Pansy. Behind him he could see the dinner party in full swing, could hear the laughter of the men as the alcohol began to set in for the night. She heard Granger set down her spoon with a clink and get to her feet, but Pansy couldn’t move.

“Mr. DuBois,” Granger said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is-”

“Ms. Granger,” Richard said. “I know who you are.” He shifted his gaze to her, and his smile was a little bit gentler, a little bit more charming. The curl of it still looked dangerous to Pansy. “I’m well acquainted with your achievements, and I understand that my wife has been working closely with you over the past few weeks.”

“Yes, she’s invaluable already. I thank you for your support.”

“Of course,” Richard said. “You and I must sit down and have an in depth discussion about your organization. I would love to hear your business model.”

“I would appreciate that, Mr. DuBois.” Granger sounded excited, and Pansy felt an unexpected surge of hate towards her, towards Richard, towards the whole thing, but then Richard glanced at her sharply and Pansy dropped her eyes in shame. It was as though he had read her mind, and she worried for a moment that he had taken up Legilimency. 

“I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Granger, but I’m afraid we’re hosting for the evening,” he said, sounding every bit the apologetic gentleman.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Granger said. “I just came by to drop something off for Park- for Mrs. DuBois. I should be on my way now.”

“Mrs. DuBois would be happy to show you out,” Richard said. “It was lovely to make your acquaintance.”

“And you, Mr. DuBois.”

Pansy took that as her cue to move. She pushed herself away from the counter and felt her husband’s eyes on her as she waved Granger towards the doorway that led back into the hall. She shut the door behind her, and her movements were mechanical as she led the way to the front door. Richard was angry. She could always tell when he was angry. She should never have let Granger in.

“I’m sorry again if I bothered you,” Granger said, oblivious to Pansy’s turmoil.

“Not at all,” Pansy said.

“Get back to me about that list, hm?”

“Certainly.” She opened the door and stood there, staring at the floor, unable to look at Granger, too afraid that the woman would see the truth in her eyes. After a few moments she realized that her guest hadn’t left yet. She cautiously raised her gaze to find Granger staring at her, her expression open and pleasant.

“Thank you again for the soup.” Her voice was softer now, and her words were accompanied with a smile.

“You’re welcome,” Pansy murmured.

Granger nodded, and then she was gone. Pansy slowly closed the door after her, wishing she could preserve this moment, the calm before the storm. But she had to go back and face the consequences for her actions. She turned around and made her way back to the kitchen, every footstep heavy.

Richard was still standing there when she returned. He had shut the door to the dining room, and he looked unimpressed.

“I was just beginning to think I would have to serve the risotto myself,” he said, his voice deceptively light.

“It will be right out,” Pansy promised, hurrying across to the stove, where the pot was simmering on the backburner.

“Hm.” Richard appraised her for another moment. She grabbed the handle of the pot, ignoring it when it burned the palm of her hands. When she heard the door click shut behind Richard as he rejoined his guests, Pansy let herself breathe a small sigh of relief. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad tonight. 

X X X X X

It was worse than Pansy had thought it would be.

She hunched over, cradling her midsection, struggling to get her breath back. Already a dull throbbing was settling into her spine; she had fallen against the coffee table only moments before. Richard’s footsteps were heavy on the wood; he was still wearing his dress shoes, still dressed in his evening wear. He smelled of alcohol. 

Pansy winced when he said, “Get up,” and stood quickly on wobbly legs. She hadn’t even had the chance to take her apron off, and her fingers were still pruny from the soapy water she had been using to clean the china. 

“I asked you to do  _ one thing _ .” He punctuated his words with a slap. Pansy took it, too stunned to try and move, to fight back, and besides, what was the point? It would only be worse if she did, she had learned that early on.

“I’m sorry,” she said, disgusted when it came out on a sob.

“What, are you going to cry?”

He raised his hand and she flinched and threw her hands up to protect her face out of reflex. The blow never came. It seemed that the fear was enough for him at the moment.

Instead he grabbed her wrist, so hard that she gasped in pain, and tugged it down so he could look at her. He reached up and brushed his fingers along the line of her jaw, gently, and the touch made her shiver in fear. From the smile slowly spreading across his face, he mistook that shiver for one of excitement.

“You’re pretty when you’re upset,” he whispered, voice clunky with his own drunkenness. 

“Please, Richard,” Pansy said, unashamed of her own whimpering. “I should go and finish cleaning up.”

He twisted his hand so her own wrist was jerked painfully downwards and she let out a cry of pain. He tugged her closer so that she stumbled and had to grab onto his shoulder for stability.

“There will be plenty of time for that later,” he said, shifting so that his lower body was pressed against hers.

“Please,” she said, and she was crying now, and that upset him because he didn’t like it when she cried. He slapped her again on the other cheek, and then leaned down and pressed his lips onto hers so hard that their teeth clinked together, and her wrist was beginning to ache in his grip, and he tasted like stale whiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments! Please let me know what you think, it means a lot xxx


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